


This Only Seems Like Generosity

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same as two years couldn’t take away the stink of death in his house, it couldn’t take away the scent of mate either; and that’s what makes Derek choke— bitter and hardly even conscious, he’s so damn sad. His head goes thick with Stiles and at long hailed last, it all goes black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Only Seems Like Generosity

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys hi! I'm June; I'm new. (WAIT DON'T LEAVE THO.) Unbeta'd because I'm lonely, and no fact-checking because there are no facts. (PLEASE STAY. WHERE ARE YOU GOING.)  
> Title is from Chuck Palahniuk's Invisible Monsters.

It’s Stiles that finds him in the old house, and why he’s there Derek doesn’t even know. He’s probably getting into shit. He’s like that.

“So. This is something.”

When Derek looks up, slow, Stiles is standing contrapposto and doe-eyed like always. He didn’t even hear him coming, and he can’t smell— anything, fuck.

“This is probably a really bad sign, you know; getting drunk alone.”

“I’m always alone.” And it isn’t even hard to say; everything’s just slipping around him now— easy. 

Stiles comes in close and now that Derek can smell him, he wishes he could stand up, step back. Maybe not be here in the first place. Maybe not be in Beacon Hills at all. But he can’t, and there’s nowhere else to be so he just breathes instead.

Stiles smells older now, in a way that’s much less unsettling than it should be; spicy with the sun and fuller now— strong. And it’s nice, Stiles grown a bit like this; he smells content. He smells like he’s been just fine.

But same as two years couldn’t take away the stink of death in his house, it couldn’t take away the scent of mate either; and that’s what makes Derek choke— bitter and hardly even conscious, he’s so damn sad. His head goes thick with _Stiles_ and at long hailed last, it all goes black.

 

*

 

“Scott knew you were coming; he’s been a uh, a little preoccupied lately, though.”

“Allison?” Derek sips from the half-empty half gallon of orange juice Stiles was just carrying around with him. (“It’s the kind with pulp, Derek. They don’t sell it small, so if I want it I need to keep it with me.” Obviously.)

“Emily,” Stiles rolls his eyes, to which Derek blinks. “I’m sure he would have come to ask why the hell you came back himself, if he weren’t preoccupied. He’s just so responsible like that.”

“You are now, aren’t you: responsible.” Stiles just keeps flipping his phone in his hands though, doesn’t look up, waits for his answer. 

“I have a home here, you know.” And Derek’s angry again, bitter. Stiles just snorts, stands up off the porch, and starts making his way to the Jeep.

“If that’s what you want to call it, sure. Hell of a home.” And he goes.

 

*

 

Derek finds work on a construction job in one of the nicest lake-front areas of Beacon County. It’s this sprawling meadowy place that’s quickly brought down to the dirt and he’s one of the guys helping to put some nice new two-car single family bits on it. He likes the hard moving of it and he gets off early enough that he has plenty of time to work on his own place afterwards. 

He shops at the same grocer as everyone else— one of those low-level chain jobs that isn’t nearly well-stocked enough to be the only full grocery store in town; sometimes Derek wants to shop exclusively at the 7-Eleven out of spite, but the Piggly Wiggly at least has _vegetables_. 

So it’s not all that surprising when Derek runs into the Stilinskis a few months or so after he comes back. It’s November, so there’s a frozen Butterball turkey in their cart, some boxed potatoes, and lots of canned vegetables. Derek has a Family Size box of Lucky Charms, 7 pears, and a value pack of chicken breasts. 

They both smell like apples and cinnamon. Derek, (like an idiot, really. Just, fuck,) stands and stares for way too long with his hands just about to grab his cart and walk away, yes that would be good. They’re coming up the isle calm, and how could he not have noticed them in the damn store sooner, Christ.

But now they’re both close up. Looking at him and then the cereal and back and forth a few times and, shit. 

“Derek, hello.” Sheriff Stilinski smells older now, too. But he’s weary and so damn tired; he’s _aged_. 

Derek’s aged, too. Around the bend and back to Beacon Hills, again. He smiles all polite; nods.

“Hello Sheriff.” And they’re still looking at his groceries, both. And— Sheriff’s looking uncomfortable now, jumpy suddenly while Stiles is just looking right through Derek’s chest like he knows—

“Heard you’re still settling into the old Hale place, Derek. Y’know we always have too much food around Thanksgiving; you should come by. Give us a reason to set the table.” He’s looking between Derek and the cereal the whole time, like he can’t even help himself.

And Derek should obviously decline, make something up. Walk away _any second now_. But he doesn’t, he holds still for a beat and then. Derek fucking nods his head. 

 

*

 

After Thanksgiving, which was awkward and quiet and very very nice, Derek runs into Stiles fairly often, really. And Derek should realize and Derek should go home when he smells clove spice on the air, but he doesn’t— he can’t.

They meet briefly at Deaton’s when Derek goes to pick up a few of his family’s tomes. They meet at the one coffee shop in town, the one bookshop in town, and the one craft supply store in town. Each time Derek stares like an idiot until he bucks up to give a quick nod and Stiles looks at him like he’s some kind of alien walking among the crowds. Which he sort of really is.

Not having betas means a lot of things for Derek; mostly it means he hasn’t felt moored for a long damn time. It used to be howling through the preserve meant a peace in him; a deep coming home in the bones. Now it’s just quiet, always quiet. Even when he ran with the Alphas, he couldn’t feel them, barely even knew they were there and it was awful and this is so much worse. 

Scott probably hears when Derek howls, but Derek knows he isn’t listening; can’t feel him, either. He could once, but now that’s done.

 

*

 

When Derek sees Stiles at Jungle, Derek knows he really needs to get over himself. He doesn’t and he won’t, but he knows he should. Obviously. Instead he drinks that much more, goes that much further, deeper into the crush of bodies. 

He’s drunk enough that he couldn’t even smell Stiles if he wanted to (he does) and wouldn’t remember the guy he’s kissing if he cared to (he doesn’t). The guy’s looking right through him anyway, gone on something. But Derek doesn’t really mind and when the guy takes him home Derek’s just glad he can’t really smell how _wrong_ it is here. He fucks the guy quick and rough in the living room and is back home by two. 

And it is home now, it’s better. Sometimes Derek fantasizes about making a pack to fill it up— warm bodies to touch and run with and cook for. But that’s gone now and when Derek wakes up he’s alone in the nearly finished kitchen, looking at the label of some really poor quality wolfsbane-whisky, bottle empty like they always are this time of day.

In June he runs into Stiles at Jungle for maybe the fourth time since Derek came back; this time when Derek stares, Stiles stares back. Still and slow in a way he never is. They’re both drunk when Derek drives them to his finished home; Derek’s very good at driving drunk, usually; it’s harder to pay attention to the right things now, but he manages.

Up close, Stiles smells like sweat, spice, and sweet citrus. Derek’s not the first one to touch him like this, he knows and it smarts. But all the same Stiles feels a lot like the anchor that Derek doesn’t have, feels just like coming home.

Even just being in the same county as Stiles has been a major improvement on his balance and a terrible— worse, so much worse than ever before— ache in his chest that only ever picks up when he’s roaring drunk. And then only for a minute or so. Only enough for it to hurt that much more when it comes screaming back at him. And just enough to be worth it every time.

He always tries to keep a distance close enough to settle him, and far enough not to let the scent lure him into ever-more, ever-nearer. But close like this Stiles feels so good, feels like everything. Stiles can’t be his mate, but that’s fine. Derek won’t have a mate and it’s fine because he _doesn’t want one_.

Stiles chokes on nothing, gets out “Come on, come on.” And Derek does. 

They’re naked in his brand new bed with brand new sheets and Stiles is flushed when his hips push up into Derek’s. He’s good at this, smooth-rolling to the taught arch and Derek needs to fuck him. He gasps, asks quiet, then louder. Can I?

And, “Yes, yes. Now, fuck.” Stiles’ movements are jerkier now; he’s sweating, he’s worked up. Derek grabs up the lube from the bedside (bought at a drugstore near his job site, not at the only pharmacy in town,) quick, slick; doesn’t really prep Stiles. Just gets it smeared everywhere and Stiles is pulling him closer, in and Derek can’t focus on anything but the spicy scent of his mate and lust and _Stiles_. 

Derek gets caught up in scenting his neck, grabbing his hair and his hips and only moving at the dig of heels in his back. He’s caught up for a long time and then he’s coming, eyes wide open and so good, looking down into dark eyes, half lidded and slipping down.

 

*

 

Derek wakes alone, but with the scent of Stiles permeating every room in the house; it’s next strongest in the kitchen and Derek resigns opens all the windows and keeps to the deck and the attic for a few days. 

When he gets stopped on a trip to the grocery and is cited for DUI at high noon the following Thursday, the Sheriff’s the one that brings him in, “Just to keep you safe, son.” They let him out some odd hours later and he’s only sentenced to some classes and community service over the next several months. But the way Sheriff Stilinski looks at him with this mix of disappointment and whole understanding weighs on Derek for a long while.

He stops drinking altogether after that. He goes to the AA meetings and doesn’t speak, does his community service, goes to work, goes grocery shopping, reads Vonnegut. He starts seeing a therapist, too: Lily. She smells like sage and bamboo wood; talks slow and listens to his rambling half-truths like it’s the easiest thing in the world. She tells him that he can have friends and even a lover if he wants— that he’s ready to meet people and know them and not be so lonely. He’s not so sure, but he goes out with a group from the meetings. It’s nice and actually very easy. He laughs with them and they make plans to do something again around Labor Day.

When he runs into Scott at Novel Hovel, he’s not surprised that Scott’s there, just that he didn’t immediately leave when Derek walked in. He’s there with a girl and when he looks up at Derek it’s with something unclear in his eyes that he gives a slow nod and a small smile. Derek’s not quick enough with his own nod, and Scott is already turning back to the girl pointing at something across the way. 

It’s not until he’s in bed reading Chrome Yellow that he realizes, Scott was looking at him with a sort of brotherly fondness— he was _proud_ , maybe; he was pleased.

 

*

 

“It’s...clean.” Scott only smells a little uncomfortable standing in Derek’s kitchen hours before moonrise. 

“Thank you.” It’s maybe not the highest compliment, but Derek likes when people talk to him; he likes when people say nice things. He’s learned that it’s give and take and he’s getting better at both.

They’ve both been running alone for a long time, and tonight’s a blue moon and the proximity is a balm to Derek’s wolf burning under his skin. They head out early; wrestle in the grass and chase each other all over. Derek feels Scott rope to anchor. They howl to each other, now.

Scott comes over all the time after that; he comes in the mornings when Derek’s off work; eats all of Derek’s popcorn and loses pieces under the couch. He tells Derek about Beacon County Community College, how he and Stiles are in all the same classes for the Police Academy; talks about Emily and how she feels like the moon to him, keeps him steady, centered and makes him crazy. Derek can smell her before they even meet (she’s lovely and brilliant, of course; stays on Derek’s couch watching movies while they run sometimes), she’s part of Scott’s scent now; she’s made him something new. 

Stiles never comes with Scott and that’s okay. Derek _has_ gotten over himself; he’s better now, and he doesn’t see Stiles in town because responsibility is not letting temptations even come close. 

Scott mentions him once; late May when he’s coming off the high of a long run; punch-drunk with the end of classes and the promise of a position on the force with his best friend come summer.

“He still smells like you, y’know.” Out of the blue and careless.

“You smell like him, too. Like you’re part of a set; he’s with some guy now, but—” but then he see’s Derek frozen and falling through every time he’s ever _wanted_. Jerking off alone and hungry and wishing for the only thing he still can’t have.

“Never mind, sorry.” Scott fucks with the top of his water bottle and starts in on his ideas about being on SWAT. Derek lets him talk, but doesn’t really listen.

 

*

 

It’s not that Derek’s afraid of loving someone that keeps him away from Stiles. Of course, he _is_ but that isn’t the problem. It’s that being in love and being mates are not at all the same thing. People fall out of love; _humans_ fall out of love all the time. With the littlest things: a relationship is over because no one talked enough or spent enough time or because someone better came along and pulled them away.

And Derek couldn’t keep Stiles, even if at first Stiles didn’t want to leave. (And obviously, he doesn’t care to stay or be around Derek for any length of time at all, so.) Derek would make him want to leave, wouldn’t be able to help it. Having a mate isn’t something any human could understand— even Emily only just tolerates Scott’s near-constant touching and Scott works hard to be less overbearing, but it hurts. 

Derek wants to keep Stiles. He wants to have him as only his and he _knows_ how fucked up that is. He would want Stiles all the time, and it would only ever get worse.

Stiles is too independent and strong and beautifully human to be Derek’s possession. 

So of course Stiles comes to the house early in the morning dark. He’s gained more muscle in the shoulders and his legs, too. He smells like mate and a safe-house, but then like drink and sex, too.

“I should have called,” he’s leaning heavy in the doorway, Derek doesn’t ask him in.

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not surprised, really.” 

“How’d you get here?” But Derek can see the Jeep in his driveway, and Stiles just laughs sour into his face.

Derek gets him into the guest bedroom where Laura’s used to be; damned if Derek’s falling back into this again.

“Try not to puke on the sheets.”

 

*

 

Stiles is still there, in the kitchen, when Derek wakes around seven. He stays in bed for a while, certain that Stiles is just having some water or coffee or something before he makes his way home, or wherever he’s going that isn’t Derek’s house. When he hears the stove click on, then off after a bit and two plates and two mugs set on the table, he guesses he’s meant to sit with Stiles and eat with him in the dining room.

Derek putters around the room for a bit, dressing slowly; putting off sitting with Stiles, who isn’t his mate, and eating the meal Stiles made for him. But the longer Stiles stays in the house, the more it’ll stink of him later, so Derek goes and sits down quiet. 

He whispers his thanks for the omelet and doesn’t meet Stiles’ gaze, but he can feel it, very clear. 

“You should have said something.” Stiles smells earthier now more than ever; he speaks with the patience that Lily has when Derek’s dodging her more specific questions. Like he knows just where they’re going and has all the time in the world to get there.

Stiles grabs up his clawed hand, grips it gentle and slow. Derek can’t move or speak or anything at all. He doesn’t know what to do with this Stiles that _knows_ ; he can’t and it _hurts_. He should pull back; he stays still.

“I thought I was crazy, and you let me think that.” Stiles isn’t angry even; just steady on: “I just wish you’d told me, Christ. Derek.” 

“I’ll take too much, it’s too much. You don’t know.” He sounds gravelly to his own ears; wolf’s howling at him to _move_ , go go.

“Of course I know, of course. I can fucking feel it, Derek. All the time, you fucking—” still quiet somehow, but quicker now; urgent. 

“I can’t, I can’t. I want too much.” But Derek’s already pulled closer; he feels shifting inside of him. He’s changing now, different.

“You can have _everything_. You _can_. I want you to take it.”

And they’re on the floor in the dining room of the Hale house, and this is where they were going; Stiles holds him steady while everything Derek wants rushes through him. It’s too much, it still hurts but it’s his now, isn’t it.

So Derek pulls in the scent of his mate, spicy-warm and intoxicating; he takes it all in and pulls him close, and they start in on _everything_.

**Author's Note:**

> Recent google searches that have done me no good:
> 
> "HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE A WEREWOLF WITH A PART-TIME JOB TO REBUILD THE BURNT OUT SHELL OF HIS FAMILY HOME."
> 
> "WHAT IS WEREWOLF BOOZE LIKE."
> 
> "WHAT DOES A MATE SMELL LIKE. IS IT EVERYTHING."


End file.
